The cold seeped into Audrey's bones, not just from the damp concrete floor of her basement room, but from the inside out. Her knees throbbed, a dull, persistent ache, reminders of the hours spent kneeling on uncooked rice. It was the latest punishment, served cold like the air she breathed now. She traced the outline of a water stain on the low ceiling, the dim light from the single bare bulb casting long, accusing shadows. It had been a year. Just one year. And everything was gone.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to conjure a different kind of light, a different kind of warmth. A memory, soft and flickering like the fire that used to fill their living room hearth.
One year ago.
The living room was bathed in the mellow gold of late afternoon sun, dust motes dancing in the beams slanting through the bay window. The air hummed with a comfortable quiet, punctuated only by the cheerful crackle of logs burning in the fireplace. Thirteen-year-old Audrey sat curled on the worn armchair, a thick paperback open in her lap but her attention fixed on the scene unfolding before her. Her mother, Karen, laughed at something her father, Mark, said, the sound light and genuine. It was the kind of ordinary, safe moment that Audrey had always taken for granted.
A ring shattered the peace. Karen picked up the landline phone on the side table, her expression shifting from amused warmth to polite concern as she listened. Audrey watched her mother's face, a silent barometer of the household mood. The polite concern withered, replaced by a stark, unnatural pallor. Karen's eyes went wide, and the hand holding the phone trembled slightly.
"Oh god, no," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Then, louder, confirming the worst, "The McCarthys… there was a fire."
Mr. Jones was instantly beside her, his earlier laughter forgotten. Audrey felt a knot tighten in her stomach. The McCarthys. Mia's parents. Mr. McCarthy, with his booming laugh and pockets always full of spare change. Mrs. McCarthy, who smelled faintly of cinnamon and always, always had a little paper twist of lemon candies just for Audrey. She remembered the tangy sweetness on her tongue, the way Mrs. McCarthy would wink as she pressed it into her hand. Warm, laughing people. Gone.
Karen hung up the phone, her face crumpled, tears welling in her eyes. Mr. Jones wrapped an arm around her, his own face grim. The fire, usually a source of comfort, seemed to suddenly glare, too bright, too hot. The safe, warm room felt cold and wrong.
The funeral was a blur of black clothing and hushed whispers. Audrey, clutching her father's hand, felt lost and bewildered. Grief for Mia's parents was a heavy cloak, but underneath was a confusing ache for her friend. Mia. Where was Mia?
Then she saw her. Standing alone beside the two closed caskets, a small figure swallowed by a plain black dress that looked too big. Mia. But not the Mia Audrey knew. Not the girl who giggled during sleepovers or shared secrets whispered under blankets. This Mia was perfectly still, unnervingly composed. Her eyes, usually bright and expressive, were dry, fixed on some distant point beyond the floral arrangements. She didn't cry. She didn't fidget. She just… stood there. Like a statue carved from ice in the suffocating heat of the crowded room.
Karen, her face streaked with dried tears, broke away from her husband and rushed towards Mia. She engulfed the smaller girl in a tearful embrace, sobbing into her hair. "Oh, Mia, darling. I'm so, so sorry." She pulled back, holding Mia by the shoulders, her voice thick with emotion. "You'll come home with us, sweetheart. Of course you will. We're family now."
Audrey, standing a little way off, watched. A strange mix of sadness for the McCarthys and relief for Mia warred within her. Mia wouldn't be alone. And… she would have a sister. The idea settled in her chest, a tiny flicker of warmth in the cold space left by grief. A sister. Someone to share her room with, to talk to late at night, to navigate the confusing world of school and growing up alongside. She smiled tentatively at Mia, a hopeful, slightly naive smile that said, It will be okay. We'll get through this together. Mia's expression didn't change.
Two weeks later.
The house felt different. Not just quieter, but heavier. Mia had moved into Audrey's room, her few belongings – mostly clothes and a surprisingly small collection of books – occupying one half of the wardrobe and a corner of the desk. She was still quiet, reserved, and the adults constantly hovered, offering reassurances, treats, and gentle smiles. Audrey tried her best to be the welcoming host, sharing her toys, her books, anything to make Mia feel at home. Mia accepted everything with a polite, unnerving stillness.
Audrey's most prized possession sat on her bedside table: a delicate wooden music box, intricately carved with miniature dancing figures. It was a gift from her grandmother, a gentle woman who had passed away two years prior. The music box played a simple, sweet lullaby when its lid was lifted, a melody that always brought a feeling of gentle comfort.
One afternoon, Audrey returned from school to find Mia sitting on her bed, holding the music box. Audrey's heart gave a little flutter of pleasure – maybe Mia was opening up, wanting to share something precious. But as she watched, Mia's fingers seemed to tighten around the delicate carvings. Then, with a sudden, sharp movement that looked almost like a deliberate twist, it slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a sickening crack. The lid flew off, the tiny dancing figures scattered like broken dreams, and the delicate mechanism inside crumpled.
Audrey gasped, rushing forward. "My music box! Oh no!" She knelt down, her hands trembling, trying to gather the pieces. The melody of the lullaby felt suddenly, terribly absent.
Mia stared at the wreckage, her eyes wide. Her lower lip began to tremble, just slightly. "I—I didn't mean to…" she whispered, her voice small and fragile. "It just… slipped."
Audrey looked up, tears stinging her eyes. "But… it was Grandma's. My favorite…"
Before Audrey could say anything else, Karen was there, drawn by the noise. She took in the scene – the broken music box on the floor, Audrey's distressed face, Mia's quivering lip. Her expression hardened as she looked at Audrey.
"Audrey! What happened?"
"Mia broke it!" Audrey cried, pointing to the pieces. "She dropped it!"
Karen immediately went to Mia, pulling her into a comforting hug. "Oh, Mia, sweetheart, don't be upset. It was just an accident, wasn't it?" She shot a sharp look at Audrey over Mia's head. "It was just an accident, Audrey. Things break. Don't make a fuss."
"But it was Grandma's!" Audrey protested, her voice rising. It wasn't just a thing; it was that thing.
"And Mia feels terrible," Karen said firmly, stroking Mia's hair. "It was just an accident. You're being selfish, making her feel worse."
Selfish? Audrey stared at her mother, bewildered. Her favorite, irreplaceable gift was broken, and she was the one being accused? She looked at Mia, still nestled in her mother's arms, her face buried against Karen's shoulder. For a split second, as Karen looked away, Audrey saw Mia's eyes flash up, meeting hers. There was no contriteness there. Just a cold, unreadable flicker before she turned back to her performance. The seeds of doubt, cold and sharp, began to sprout in Audrey's heart. The lullaby, once a source of comfort, now felt like a mocking silence.
The incidents started subtly, easy to dismiss at first. A drawing that went missing, only to be found torn up in the trash with an innocent "Oh, was that yours?"; a homework assignment that was misplaced just before it was due; a small, whispered comment to Karen about Audrey being "a little rough" when she was trying to share. Each time, Mia's eyes would widen, her voice tremble just so, and Karen would sigh, or give Audrey a disappointed look. Mr. Jones, less outwardly emotional than Karen, seemed to take things more factually, dismissing Audrey's protests as the usual sibling squabbles, amplified by Mia's trauma.
Then came the first big lie.
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon. Audrey was upstairs in her room, reading near the window. She could hear the low murmur of her parents' voices downstairs, and ocCasually the soft padding of Mia's feet moving around. The house felt normal, almost peaceful. Too peaceful.
Suddenly, a sharp cry, followed by a loud thud and a bloodcurdling scream, ripped through the quiet. Audrey's heart leaped into her throat. It sounded like it came from the stairs.
She threw her book aside and bolted out of her room, rushing to the landing. Her parents were already there, having appeared as if by magic from the living room. They were gathered at the foot of the stairs, where Mia lay sprawled on the bottom step, clutching her ankle and sobbing hysterically.
"Mia! Oh my god, Mia!" Karen shrieked, rushing down the stairs. Mr. Jones was right behind her, his face etched with panic.
Audrey froze on the landing, her eyes wide. What happened? Did she fall?
Karen knelt beside Mia, her voice frantic. "What happened, sweetheart? Are you hurt? What happened?!"
Mia, still sobbing, lifted a trembling arm and pointed a shaking finger up the stairs. Directly at Audrey.
"Sh-she pushed me!" Mia choked out between sobs, her voice raw with feigned terror. "Audrey pushed me!"
Audrey stared, stunned into silence. Pushed her? She hadn't been anywhere near the stairs! She'd been in her room!
"No!" Audrey finally found her voice, her protest weak against the tide of Mia's performance. "No, that's not true! I was in my room! I wasn't even—"
Mr. Jones was already halfway up the stairs, his face a mask of cold fury that Audrey had never seen directed at her before. His eyes, usually warm and kind, were icy shards. He didn't even look at Mia, his focus entirely on Audrey.
"Audrey. What did you do?" His voice was low, dangerously flat.
"I didn't do anything!" Tears of shock and fear sprang to Audrey's eyes. "I was reading! In my room!"
"She pushed me!" Mia wailed again from below, cementing the accusation.
Karen, cradling Mia's head, looked up at Audrey with a look of utter disappointment and betrayal. "Audrey! How could you?"
"I didn't!" Audrey pleaded, her voice cracking. "Please, I didn't! Why would I?"
Mr. Jones reached the top of the stairs. He didn't shout, he didn't rage. That would have been easier. Instead, his voice was a chilling whisper, devoid of warmth or understanding. "Apologize to your sister, Audrey."
"But I didn't—"
"Apologize. Now."
Audrey looked from her father's rigid face to where her mother was fussing over Mia, Mia's sobs slowly subsiding into shuddering breaths. She saw the accusation in their eyes, the absolute belief in Mia's lie. Her own room felt a million miles away. Her voice was barely a whisper.
"I… I'm sorry," she mumbled, the words tasting like ash.
"Sorry for what?" Mr. Jones prompted, his eyes unwavering.
"Sorry… sorry I pushed you," Audrey forced out, the lie burning her tongue.
"Good," Mr. Jones said, though there was no warmth in the word. "Mia is hurt because of you. You will go to your room. There will be no dinner for you tonight." He paused, and a grim satisfaction seemed to settle on his face. "And you will write, 'I will not lie to my family,' one hundred times. Perhaps that will help you remember the truth."
"But I'm not lying!" Audrey's buried protest slipped out, desperate and raw.
The coldness in her father's eyes deepened. "One hundred times, Audrey. And every time you try to argue or lie again, the number will double. Understood?"
Audrey shrunk back, defeated. She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat. She stumbled back into her room, the door closing softly behind her, but the sound felt like a heavy, final slam.
She found a pen and paper, her hands still shaking. One hundred times. I will not lie to my family. The words felt like a brand, mocking the innocence she knew was the truth. She wrote, the pen scratching against the paper, the ink bleeding slightly around the edges. Her hand began to cramp, then ache. She pressed harder, frustration and despair building inside her. The pen seemed to dig into her skin, the point pushing against the soft flesh of her palm. She didn't stop. She couldn't. She just wrote the lie, again and again and again, until the paper was full and her hand throbbed, a small, crescent-shaped mark etched into her skin where the pen had dug deepest. A physical manifestation of the first accepted lie, the first punishment for a crime she didn't commit.
Present day.
Audrey's fingers trace the faint scar on her palm, a tiny, barely visible line that is nonetheless a constant, burning reminder. The ache in her knees from the rice punishment is fading now, replaced by the familiar, dull throb of cold and isolation.
The basement is pitch black tonight, the single bulb having burned out yesterday. They hadn't replaced it. She lies on the thin mattress on the floor, wrapped in a worn blanket that does little to ward off the chill. Up above, she can hear the sounds of the house – muffled laughter, the clinking of dishes. The sounds of a family. Not her family anymore.
A soft, sweet voice drifts down the stairs, clear and bright in the silence of the basement.
"Goodnight, Audrey."
It's Mia. Her voice, dripping with artificial sweetness, like the lemon candies Audrey's parents used to give her. Lemon candies from the parents who were gone.
Audrey lies there in the suffocating dark, the scar on her palm a small, angry pulse point. Mia's parents died in a fire. She thinks of the warmth of her old living room, the light, the laughter, the easy comfort of her mother's smile and her father's quiet strength. She thinks of the music box, silenced and broken. She thinks of the lies, the punishments, the slow, deliberate erosion of her parents' trust, replaced by suspicion and coldness.
The fire didn't just take Mia's parents, she realizes with a gut-wrenching certainty that settles deep in her chest like a stone. The fire, or whatever happened that night, had been the catalyst. It had brought Mia into their lives. And Mia, like a slow, creeping poison, had burned everything down.
The fire didn't just take Mia's parents. It took hers, too. And left only the cold, the dark, and the chilling knowledge that she was trapped, replaced in her own home by a ghost in a black dress who never cried.